


Everything I Need to Know

by letsgogetlost



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Period-Atypical levels of acceptance, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Jakes sticks around, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but not a lot, but not a lot of that either, it's Jakes you know what's coming, please just let my sad boy be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-15 00:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13601352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsgogetlost/pseuds/letsgogetlost
Summary: In 1968 Oxford, a police investigation comes dangerously close to laying secrets bare, and an unlikely friendship is formed from the chaos and anxiety.This is the story of how it happened, and what came after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to this self-indulgent fic featuring a pairing that makes very little sense in the canon. The idea came to me and I couldn't let it go. These things happen.
> 
>  
> 
> Un-beta'd, so apologies for any mistakes.

The thing about going to certain bars and clubs in Oxford was that if you saw someone you knew from outside - from the real world, from work, from your neighborhood - you didn’t make eye contact. You didn’t acknowledge.

Peter Jakes knew that instinctively, like he knew a lot of things. And he was glad to see that the young dark-haired man at the other end of the bar knew the same. His perfectly lined eyes hit Jakes and just slid away, like Jakes wasn’t even there, and he turned his attention back to the older, bearded man who seemed to be buying him a drink. Jakes, meanwhile, refocused on the heavily made-up face and bobbing wig in front of him, listening to his friend Brian carrying on about something in that terribly charming way he had when he was all done up as Blanche.

Jakes was halfway through another cigarette, Blanche halfway through another tall tale, when there was a loud noise from the entrance to the bar, and then a shout went up. The call of “Coppers!” might not have meant instant arrest any longer, lives ruined in a moment, but it was still no good, and the bar was immediately in chaos. Blanche gave Jakes a look - Jakes was already on his feet, and he leaned close. “You’ll be fine, this isn’t a bust.” 

He knew exactly what it was, though, and therefore exactly who would be there - a knowledge confirmed when a familiar voice boomed out “All right, all right, calm down, this isn’t a raid.” And a second later Jakes was through the scrum and grabbing the young man from the other end of the bar by the elbow. 

Sam Thursday turned wild eyes on Jakes, who only held him tighter. “Back door, come on.” The place had multiple exits - plenty of places like it did - and he’d long since scoped out which was the best. The least likely to be covered. He was right, and a minute later they were out in an alley, Jakes tugging the stumbling younger man down turns in several back streets before stopping abruptly in a sheltered spot.

Sam looked at him in the dim light, and murmured “Thanks,” followed immediately by “Oh, I’m going to be sick.” Jakes turned him away in a businesslike fashion, and Sam managed to not get the largely liquid contents of his stomach on any of their shoes. A good boy, that Thursday boy.

He sounded so miserable as he took a last few dry retches that Jakes reached out and patted his back. “You’re all right. Better out than in.”

Sam laughed roughly and spat on the ground. 

“What?”

“You sound like my dad.” He stilled, then, and looked up at him. “He didn’t -“

Jakes shook his head. “He was still in the lobby, no way to see in from there.”

Sam nodded weakly. He still looked like he might be sick, and his eyeliner was running a little from nervous sweat and the edge of tears that had risen with the vomit. 

“Are they expecting you home tonight?”

“No. They think I’m at a mate’s.”

“Good. You can sleep at mine.” 

Jakes wouldn’t have thought it possible for the boy to go any more greeny-pale and stricken-looking, but he did. “I couldn’t.”

“You could. You’re still drunk and you look rough. You’re in no state to be walking home alone and I’m in no mood to walk with you. I’ve got a spare room. You can sleep there and go home in the morning.”

“You don’t have to. And I already ruined your night.”

“Your father and my lovely fellow coppers ruined my night.”

“But you left your… the lady - to get me -“

Jakes laughed, so loud that Sam startled. “Oh, Blanche would _love_ to hear you call her that. _A lady._ But no. It’s not like that. Just an old friend.”

“Oh. All right… But you still don’t have to.”

Jakes heaved a sigh. “There’s a killer on the loose and I’m a copper. So maybe I do have to.”

That shut Sam up, and he followed Jakes home. He was still unsteady on his feet, but seemed to be sobering up a little. Nonetheless, Jakes left him a basin beside the bed in the spare room, along with a pile of blankets, before going to wash his face and put himself to bed.

It was only when he got there, in the privacy of his own space, that he let what he’d done sink in, and he muttered a soft “Fuck,” rubbing at his face, before lying down and turning off the light.

 

He’d half expected Sam to be gone in the morning, but when he looked in the young man was still sound asleep, wrapped up in the blankets, mouth hanging open a little. When Jakes knocked on the open door, Sam snuffled and shifted, then blinked across at his host and sat up suddenly - an action that was followed by a groan. 

“All right?” Jakes asked, concerned he might need to remind him the basin was there.

Sam nodded, though he was rubbing at his temples. “Just hungover.”

“You remember how you got here?”

“Yeah. Uh. Thanks.”

Jakes shrugged. “Clean up - wash your face, I left out a flannel. Then we’ll get breakfast.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re hungover, I’m not fresh as a daisy myself, and I’m starved. And I’ve got no food in. So we’re going to go eat breakfast.”

Sam seemed to know when a tone brooked no argument, and just nodded and went off to the bathroom to clean up. When he emerged he looked fresh-cheeked and not nearly so rough, though his eyes were bloodshot. They nodded at each other, and went downstairs and onto the street without another word.

Breakfast was quiet, too, other than some chat about how good the café’s eggs and coffee were, and the argument over who would pay. In the end Jakes let Sam pay for his own meal, both because he was afraid they would attract attention and, as Sam hissed in a low voice, he did owe Jakes.

 

When Jakes said he’d walk Sam home, Sam tried to shoo him off, saying he was fine - sober, and safe, on a quiet Sunday morning. But Jakes shook his head and said, voice low, “We need to talk about some things, where we can’t be overheard.”

And Sam accepted that without argument, and they took the long way to the Thursdays’, through deserted parks and empty residential streets.

When he was sure they were alone, Jakes started. “I know you won’t tell anyone…”

Sam shook his head vehemently, giving him a slightly horrified look. “Of course not.”

“Good. And me neither, of course.”

“You promise?”

He turned his sharp gaze to Sam, but nodded softly. “I do.”

“Good. Me too.”

“Does anyone else know?”

Sam shook his head, saying “Just my sister,” then hesitated, missing a step in his gait. “And Morse.”

“What? Why?”

Sam had stopped dead in the path, and wasn’t looking at Jakes, eyes moving away fast like they had in the bar. “We had an encounter. In a public lav.”

“An _encounter_?”

“Not like that! It was back a week ago, a week and a half… he was investigating a case.” He’d turned back to Jakes, and now his eyes went very wide. “Is that why they were there last night?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I’m not working that case… come on, keep walking.” An old woman with a dog had passed on a cross-path, and he didn’t want to be seen to be lingering like this. “This killer, whoever it is,” he said, voice low as they walked, almost drowned out by the crunch of their shoes on the gravel, “He isn’t just going after young men, he’s going after young homosexuals. Around the station they’re calling him the Queer Killer, when no one important’s listening. And that’s what they’re calling him in the bars, too. Mr. QK.” He grasped at Sam’s elbow suddenly, both of them pulling up short again. “You can’t be cottaging. Not now. Not like that. You need to be careful.” His fingers were digging into Sam’s arm, and the younger man winced before he nodded, fast, and Jakes became aware of what he was doing, and dropped his arm.

“Morse said the same thing. Not to be out like that, not right now. Not until him and Dad catch him.”

“Good. Good to know he does have some sense, sometimes.” He started walking again, fast, and Sam jogged to keep up. “There’s going to be a lot more police presence around those sort of places, and places like last night, until they do catch him. So, given…”

Sam just nodded. It was an easy implication to understand. They both needed to lie low if they didn’t want their secrets getting found out by people at the centers of their lives.

They didn’t say much else, and Jakes turned around several blocks from the Thursdays’ house, leaving Sam to make his own way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from a Small Faces song - "Afterglow (Of Your Love)", which is contemporary with the story. And a favorite of mine. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQ4KOqY6HEY
> 
> Find me on Twitter if you're into fic ramblings and a lot of yelling about figure skating. https://twitter.com/IcyPetitsPois


	2. Chapter 2

Not working the QK case had been Jakes’s choice. He'd been working on a string of burglaries, and when a young man turned up dead in a secluded stand of trees in a city park, he’d waved the case off to Morse as though it was somehow charitable, him staying on a mid-level larceny case while Morse got the ‘meaty’ stuff. But he’d had an inkling, even then. A young man turning up dead in a known cruising spot wasn’t likely to be a coincidence.

He’d been right, of course. Unfortunately. Three young men were dead now, and they hadn’t caught the killer, and dread was eating at Jakes’s stomach every day - even more than usual. But he was staying well away, at least when he was on the clock. If Thursday was investigating that world, there was too much chance Jakes would get himself into difficulties. Get himself recognized.

He’d been spending more time in the bars, though. It had felt right, keeping an eye on things from the inside. But now it seemed like the team was taking an interest in social spaces, not just the cottages, so he’d have to stop that.

He’d been keeping an eye on the investigation board, too. On the Monday after the raid, things had shifted around on it - no surprise there, they had obviously been following a lead. He didn’t get a good look at it until the afternoon, though, once everyone was starting to filter out, head home for the day. 

There was a photo in the middle of the board now. A bearded man.

Jakes would have known him anywhere. It was the man who had been talking to Sam at the bar.

He looked around - Thursday and Morse were in a meeting with Bright. Good. He gathered up his jacket and was out of the station a minute later, without a word to anyone, and a few minutes later he was pulling up in front of the Thursdays’ house.

Mrs. Thursday opened the door, and went a little pale when she saw him - only then did he think what it must look like, him showing up unannounced and alone. “Sergeant Jakes -“ Mrs. Thursday was already saying, “I’m sorry, Fred’s not home…”

“I know, Mrs. Thursday, thank you - he and Morse were in a meeting when I left. I’m actually here to see Sam.”

“Oh?” She was frowning now, going from concerned to just confused.

“I got a note from him at work, he says he’s found my wallet - we ran into each other at the pub this weekend, I must have dropped it.” He’d spent the whole drive agonizing over a lie to tell. It would be easy for this one to fail, but maybe if he was lucky it would work. She certainly seemed to be accepting it, a smile spreading across her face now. 

“Oh! How lucky he found it. He just got home.” She called her son’s name up the stairs, and a moment later Sam popped his head round the edge of the stairwell. He was in the midst of undoing his tie, and his hands paused at his neck, smile freezing on his face when he saw Jakes.

“I got your note about my wallet,” Jakes said, before Sam could voice his obvious confusion. “Thanks for finding it - have you got it up there?”

Sam nodded quickly, though his expression still betrayed his surprise. “Yeah, better come up.”

So he did, though it felt odd, climbing up into the private spaces of the Thursdays’ home. Once they were in Sam’s room - football posters, records, not many books - Sam spun on his heel and gave Jakes a questioning, rather annoyed look, all eyebrows and frown. “What -“

“The killer,” Jakes said, voice low - almost a hiss, urgent and fast and afraid to be heard. “It’s that bloke with the beard. The one who was talking to you. Or they think it is - he’s on the investigation board, right in the middle. They think it’s him.” He was repeating himself now, so he shut his mouth.

Sam blinked at him, face almost as pale as when he’d been sick in the street on Saturday. “What? I…” He made an empty gesture with his hands, obviously unsure what to do, what to say.

“Be careful. Be _very_ careful. All right? Don’t go out. No bars, no anything. For that matter, don’t be out after dark. These things, they’re happening in the night, but I don’t think they know how he’s choosing his victims, or how he’s taking them. So _be careful_. Please.” He hadn’t meant to say that. _Please._ It had been the place for another ‘all right?’. Or for insisting. For demands.

But Sam just nodded. “I will. I’ll stay in. Thank you.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He pulled out his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket - Sam frowned at it, then realized what he was doing, and smiled.

“That was clever.”

Jakes gave him a small smile, tapped the wallet, and headed back down the stairs. He did remember to say goodbye and thank you to Mrs. Thursday, and showed her his wallet - but then he was gone, and he pulled away in his car a little faster than he should have. He hadn’t wanted to get caught there by Thursday or, maybe worse, by Morse. There would have been questions, and lies could only stretch so far.

 

He did think of Sam a fair amount over the next few days, but he wasn’t as anxious over it all as he’d expected to be. Sam had looked genuinely terrified, and he seemed to have a level head on his shoulders. He was unlikely to risk going out, not before the killer was caught. And it was the middle of the week, anyway. There was less temptation to go to a bar on a Tuesday or Wednesday than on a Saturday.

When his desk phone rang on Friday afternoon, not long after he’d gotten in from lunch, he’d expected it to be about the week's most recent burglary. He hadn’t expected to hear Sam Thursday’s voice, hushed and stuttering, on the other end of the line.

“S-Sergeant Jakes?”

“Yes -”

“He, uh - I saw him. He talked to me on the street. He said he - he knows who I am… he was right outside the office!”

“Stay there. There’s other people there?”

“Yes.”

“Give me the address, and stay around the others. Don’t leave their sight and don’t go outside. I’m coming to get you.”

Sam rattled off the address and Jakes hung up, bolted for the door - and collided with Morse coming in. They muttered curses and frowned at each other, then disentangled. Jakes managed a “I have to go - case,” then left Morse watching with a perplexed frown as he rushed down the corridor .

 

It was only when he was en route to Sam’s office that Jakes realized he should have sent patrol. Or brought Morse. Or something. But his priority was getting there, and so get there he would.

He scanned the street as he pulled up, but he couldn’t see the bearded man. Inside, Sam was sitting at a desk among several others, looking very pale again. He stood up when Jakes came in, and stuck his head into an office off the main room. A minute later he’d gathered his things and approached Jakes, who said “Ready to go?”, trying to sound like they were off on an errand instead of in fear for one of their lives.

Sam nodded. Coming out onto the street he went very tense, eyes darting around, shoulders up, and only relaxed once they were in the car and several blocks away. “I told them I was ill, I think they believed me…”

Jakes glanced at him and nodded. He would have believed it, too. He looked distinctly green around the gills.

“Where are we going?”

“My flat.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t take you to the station for obvious reasons, and if he knows who you are I can’t take you home, either.”

“Oh, ah… right. Thank you.”

Jakes just nodded, maneuvering his car through the city center traffic. 

“But what - what now?”

“I’m going to call Morse. If this bloke approached you, and in broad daylight… you need to talk to Morse.”

“If? He _did_. It was him. He said he knew who I was, and wouldn’t my dad like to know what I got up to, or the people in my office, and maybe I should just come with him for a nice afternoon stroll instead… I told him to fuck off, I was late back from my lunch.”

“Bloody hell." Jakes turned, looked him in the eye. "You did the right thing. And - I did believe you.”

“Thanks.”

He murmured an acknowledgement, and they drove the last few minutes in silence.

 

When they got in, Jakes nodded Sam over to the sofa and went to put the kettle on and call Morse.

Luckily, the detective was at his desk - when he picked up, Jakes launched straight in. “Morse. I need you to come to my flat.”

“What - Jakes? Why?”

“I’ve got someone here who’s encountered your killer. Today - earlier today. Tried to pick him up in broad daylight.”

“What? Where? When was this?”

“After lunch. He was long gone by the time I got there. Just come, all right? Soon.” And he gave Morse his address - not something he’d ever expected to do, but here they were. His governor’s son looking faint on his couch and Morse on the phone.

“Why didn’t you bring him here? Why didn’t you _tell me_? What’s going on?”

“You’ll see. Just get here.” And he hung up. 

When the kettle boiled, he brought cups of tea into the sitting room - one for him, one for Sam. And milk and sugar, too. “How do you take it?”

Sam shook himself a little - he’d been miles away. “Milk two sugars, thanks.”

Jakes nodded and handed it over, and got a wan smile in return.

A little while later, there was a knock on the door - Morse. Jakes let him in, and tried to ignore his obvious evaluation of the flat, of Jakes, of everything. This was hardly one of Morse’s sad little bedsits. Jakes handled his money carefully, but he had a modicum of taste, and applied it to his surroundings. His furniture was understated, but modern - well built, with a touch of delicacy. His books and records were carefully shelved. Things were clean and in order. He felt it was all in keeping with the way he presented himself, but he also knew that Morse would be taking it all in, filing it away, and he couldn’t help but resent it a little, even if they were something like friends now.

But Morse’s attention was taken away when Sam stepped back in to the room, drying his hands on a tea towel. He’d insisted on washing up the tea things, and Jakes had left him back there when he’d gone to the door. Better for him to keep at least somewhat out of sight in case the knock at the door hadn’t been Morse.

Morse’s eyes went wide, and he looked from Jakes to Sam, then back again. “Ah. How did you… you’re not even working the case.” He turned back to Sam sharply. “Richards approached you?”

“The bearded man? Yes.”

“And you’d met him before?”

Sam nodded.

“Sit. Tell me everything.” Sam settled on the couch again, Morse in a chair at his elbow, notepad drawn. Jakes settled at the other end of the couch - closer to Sam than he'd usually sit, but it felt right. He was going to keep an eye on all this, and help if he could.

After a reassurance that Morse wouldn’t tell Thursday unless he absolutely had to, Sam ran through what had happened that day - being approached, the things that the man - Richards - had said. And then the details of their first encounter, which had been in a public lav. 

“Did you, erm…”

“Yes. Just hands.”

Jakes kept his eyes on the floor, trying not to think too much about it. What he’d been doing - what they all did, at one point or another. And the danger he’d been in. Still was in.

“And then he approached you today?”

Sam shook his head. “I saw him before that. In a bar… Saturday. Dad was there.”

Morse’s eyes went wide again. “I was there, too.”

“So was I,” Jakes said, voice low. Morse glanced at him, but if he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Jakes had already suspected that Morse must have an idea of his private life, and that seemed to confirm it.

“He was talking to me, then. Bought me a drink. But then the police - and he disappeared, and then Sergeant Jakes, he got me out. So Dad wouldn’t see me.”

Morse nodded and shot another look at Jakes, then re-focused and frowned down at his notepad. “So he saw you twice, and then… did he try to get you to go anywhere, when you met in the conveniences?”

“No. Just - I think he said he’d see me around? I didn’t like that, but then he was so charming in the bar.”

“So he might be meeting his victims more than once… Jakes, had you seen him before?”

“Maybe. He looked familiar.”

Morse nodded, but he already looked far away, his brow furrowed in thought. “If he’s using public places and then bars… there’s might be more of a pattern than we thought.” He stood up, suddenly - Sam looked startled, but Jakes just kept careful eyes on him. “I need to go. Stay here - Jakes, keep him here. Until you hear from me.” 

They both nodded, and Morse rushed out.

“What was that?” Sam asked, staring after him. 

“That was Morse,” Jakes murmured, before getting up, going to throw the bolt on the door. “I think he had a notion - sometimes when he looks like that, he’s onto something. So hopefully…”

Sam nodded and sank back into the couch cushions; Jakes switched on the television, hoping it would keep them both distracted.

“Your reception’s a lot better than ours,” Sam mumbled, watching Jakes switch channels from across the room. Jakes turned and shot him a grin.

“That’s because I value my electronics. Any preferences?”

Sam shook his head, then contradicted himself immediately. “Sport, if it’s on. Anything.”

They ended up watching the cricket. Not a first choice for either of them, but it gave them something to do. Something to take their mind off things.


	3. Chapter 3

After about an hour of sitting with Sam in front of the television Jakes got up, saying he needed to make a call.

“Oxford City Hospital,” the operator answered after he’d dialed.

“Yes, hello - I’d like to speak to Dr. Harris if he’s in. Surgeon’s office.”

“I’ll put you through, one moment.”

From the young lady who picked up in the surgeon’s office, he learned Dr. Harris was just coming off his shift, and would speak to him in a moment.

“Hullo?” a familiar voice said down the line a moment later.

“Brian. It’s Peter. Sorry to call you at work, but I need to ask you a favor.”

“Is everything all right?”

“It should be. But listen - are you doing anything now?”

“No, I was going to get a takeaway and watch telly.”

“Want to do that at my flat? Something’s come up, because of work - because of Mr. QK. I’ve got someone here I’m looking after and I can’t leave him, and I’ve not got any food in.”

Brian laughed softly through his nose. “You need to take better care of yourself, mate.”

“Says the man who only eats takeaways. Can you do it? Enough for three. I’ll pay you back.”

“No worries. I’ll see you in a bit.”

 

And three quarters of an hour later, there was Brian at the door with a huge bag of food. “What’s going on?” he asked, as soon as Jakes got the door closed and locked again.

“There’s this young bloke, from the bars. The killer might be after him - he came to me for help, I’m looking after him until the others catch the madman. Which should hopefully be soon, but until then…”

“Bloody hell, Peter. Do you need anything else? He’s not hurt, is he?”

“No, no - it should be fine for now. This will help.” He took the bag off Brian and walked into the sitting room. 

He’d warned Sam his friend was coming around - his friend who was sometimes Blanche - and Sam came forward to greet him with a soft smile. “Hello. Thank you for feeding us.”

Brian broke out in a huge, warm grin. “Oh, it’s _you_. The lovely boy with the perfect eyeliner. Where did you learn how to do that?”

Sam blushed as Brian pumped his hand up and down, and Jakes wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the younger man look so pleased. “Thank you. My sister taught me.”

“She did, did she? Sometimes sisters are worth the trouble, aren’t they. All right, sit down. I’ll help Peter get the food on.”

Sam did as he was told. Jakes and Brian had a short, hissed conversation in the kitchen about who exactly Sam was and just how sensitive this whole situation was - Brian doing most of the hissing, since Jakes was well aware. Then they came back and spread everything on the small table in the corner of the sitting room, and Sam joined them, looking a little cheerier and more relaxed than he had been. He’d needed a distraction, and Brian was very good at being one.

Jakes might have preferred a different subject for the dinner table conversation, though. That one was Sam’s fault. He was digging into his chips and sausage and looked up, all innocence (apparently - Jakes had his doubts) and asked “So how do you two know each other?”

Jakes gave him a probably too-severe look. That wasn’t the kind of question you asked of people you saw in bars like the one where their lives had intersected. But Brian just laughed at his friend’s sour expression. “Stop frowning, Peter, it’s hardly scandalous. We’re all friends here.”

Jakes rolled his eyes and went back to eating, knowing Brian would take that as permission.

“Well, Sam, you see, Peter here was once young and innocent, just like you.” 

Jakes snorted. He didn’t think anyone in that room qualified as innocent.

“He needed to be taken under someone’s wing, and that someone was me.”

“Yeah, but… how did you actually meet? You didn’t…”

Brian laughed, a full belly laugh. “Oh no, darling, no. I’m not dear Peter’s type. Not his sort of thing. No Blanche for him, nothing so fabulous.”

Sam turned his dark eyes on Jakes. “So what is your sort of thing?"

Jakes choked on his drink, but when he regained his composure, he was laughing. “Oh, I am _not_ telling you that.”

Sam just grinned. Apparently that was the reaction he’d been looking for. And damn him, Jakes did think it was funny.

“You weren’t Blanche when we met, though,” Jakes reminded Brian, as Sam helped himself to more food.

“Hm, no. I was Dr. Harris then. My other alter-ego.” Sam had looked up, curious, so Brian went on. “I'm a surgeon, but I was working casualty back then, and this one came in all battered after a Saturday night street corner bust-up. Some bloke looking at him the wrong way, or something.”

“He called me a poofter,” Jakes muttered into his beer.

It was Brian’s turn to roll his eyes. “Mmhm. And he wasn’t wrong, was he, darling? Anyway, I could see that perhaps our dear boy here needed some friendly guidance, as well as a few stitches. So I bought him a coffee and we’ve been friends ever since.”

Jakes touched the scar on his left cheekbone without really thinking about it, then saw Sam’s eyes tracking him, and lowered his hand quickly.

“Is that all true?” Sam asked, meeting Jakes’s eyes.

He nodded. Brian had looked after him when he’d needed looking after, which few other people had ever done. And Jakes had tried his best to do right by him, whether buying him drinks or warning him of raids or providing a shoulder to cry on, when that was what was needed.

“So what about you, Sam? What are you doing with your young life?”

“I’m joining the army.” He said it so easily - such an established plan - then shoved in a mouthful of chips, apparently not expecting any follow-up questions.

Brian’s eyebrows arched up sharply. “Really.”

“Mmhm,” Sam mumbled around the chips, nodding vigorously.

“Why?”

Sam swallowed. “Because I want to.”

“Are you sure, love?”

Sam frowned at him. “Yes.”

“Oh, darling…” Brian sat back and looked at him. “I tried that, you know. Military life. Figured it would make me look strong, make my family believe I was who they wanted me to be. It didn’t work out. And for some men… it squeezes the life and the joy right out of them. And you’re so lovely! Don’t let that happen to you.”

Sam shrugged. He wouldn’t meet Brian’s eyes, which was interesting to Jakes. He’d seemed so sure a moment ago.

“If you’re just wanting to get away from home, then move in here. Peter needs a new lodger.”

“Brian!”

“Oh, hush.”

Sam was watching Jakes, now, with an intent, evaluating look that reminded him of Joan. “Really?”

“He does,” Brian said. “But ignore me, I’m just gardening, planting seeds… Peter, love, do you have more lager?”

 

Brian left after they’d finished eating, but not before he’d cornered Jakes in the kitchen again.

“You can’t let him go into the army, Peter, not if you can help it.”

Jakes, elbow-deep in washing-up, glared at him. “I don’t think I _can_ help it, I barely know him.” 

Brian scoffed. “He trusts you and probably looks up to you. He needs to get away from home, but he can’t go into the army. He’s looking for something that will make him hard, but he’s so sweet, and he’s only just figuring things out for himself - it will crush him. I’d bet he’d move in here instead if you offered.”

“I don’t know, Brian, he seems determined.”

“Make it a wager, then? A fiver?”

He laughed. “Sure. A fiver.”

“That means you’ll actually have to ask him.”

He glared over at his friend. “You clever bloody bastard.”

Brian just laughed his huge laugh and went to say his goodbyes to Sam, and left them on their own.

 

The phone rang at 11 that night, and Jakes dropped his book and scrambled out of his chair, trying not to disturb Sam, who was drowsing on the couch. He picked up on the second ring. It was Morse, bearing the news they’d been hoping for. The police had caught the bearded man, Richards. They were sure he was the one who’d been killing the young men, and they were sure he’d been working alone. Sam should be safe to go home. 

When Jakes came back into the room, Sam was sitting up, and blinking sleepily. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, swiping at one eye with the back of a hand.

“They caught him. They’re sure it’s him - he was the one doing it. You can go home. You’re safe.”

Sam gave him a wide-eyed look and then, to Jakes’s surprise, started to cry. He immediately started rubbing at his eyes and gasping in breaths - embarrassed, and trying to stop, which somehow only made it more upsetting to see.

Jakes sat down next to him and gave him a stiff pat on the shoulder. “You’re all right… C’mon, mate. It’s all right.” He didn’t say anything about how he was safe now, how he didn’t have to worry, because he understood. He knew that that was just it. Sam had been terrified all day, under threat, and knew that he’d been in awful danger and totally unaware for some time. And he’d been trapped in not being sure what would come next. Now it was over, and he needed to let some of that out.

That, all that - Jakes understood.

After a moment Sam got himself under control, and Jakes handed over his handkerchief so he could dry his eyes, and got a soft, abashed “Thanks” in return.

“You’re all right,” Jakes murmured again, this time to shrug off the thanks, and got up. “If we leave now we might get you home before your father.” It was a good idea - Sam might face less questions that way. He’s said his mother was away visiting friends. And if Joan even noticed he’d been out, she’d hopefully be less likely to pry into his life.

 

Sam was silent on the drive, watching nighttime Oxford out the car window, but as they pulled up near the Thursdays’ house, he turned to Jakes. “Thank you.”

Jakes shrugged. “You’re all right.”

“No - really. You’ve done so much for me. You kept me out of it… and, uh, kept me safe. So thank you.”

This time he gave Sam a nod, accepting the thanks. “Of course.”

“I should, um - buy you a drink sometime. Or something. I owe you.”

Jakes contemplated that - going silent enough that Sam started to look a little nervous. “Yeah, all right. But at a normal pub.” It wasn’t wise for them to be seen together in a place like where they’d met.

“Of course.”

“The Mare? Next Tuesday, unless something comes up?”

Sam looked a little surprised, but he nodded. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Good. See you, Sam.”

“See you, uh…”

Jakes laughed under his breath. “I think we’ve been through enough that you’re allowed to call me Peter, now. Just not in front of your father. Or Morse.”

Sam laughed, too. “All right. Peter. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

Jakes watched him lope away - kept an eye on him until he was at his house, and letting himself in. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Joan greet her brother at the door. She was probably about to give him grief for disappearing all evening, but Jakes felt better knowing Sam wasn’t there alone. And then he pulled away from the kerb, watching headlights in his rearview mirror and wondering if he’d just missed Morse and Thursday. That was cutting it fine. A lot of this had been. But their secrets were still as well-kept as they could hope them to be, and Sam was safe, and those were the important things.


	4. Chapter 4

The next Tuesday didn’t work out - Jakes’s larceny case finally came to a head, and he was busy. But they made it the next week, settling into a corner of The Mare, one of many nondescript pubs in town, but one Jakes liked because it was far enough from the police station that he was unlikely to see any coworkers there. And, therefore, he was unlikely to be spotted having a drink with his governor’s son.

He did let Sam buy the first round. And it was easier, less awkward, than he had expected. They didn’t talk about the case, about what had happened. Instead Jakes asked him about football, and that got Sam going, and they were two rounds in before Jakes mentioned his flat, or the army.

Having had two drinks helped. Because he’d been thinking about it, and having Sam as his lodger wouldn’t be the worst thing. “Given any thought to what Brian said?” he asked, as Sam slid back into his seat, putting down two ales on the table.

Sam looked up, eyes just a little wide. Of course, Brian had said a lot of things.

“About the flat. And the army, for that matter.”

“Yeah, actually. But you didn’t seem like you wanted me for a flatmate.”

“Hm, yeah.” He took a large gulp of his drink. This was such a bad idea. But Brian had been right. He needed help with the rent, and Sam needed to get away from home without going into the forces. “I had a think about that, and I figure you wouldn't be the worst flatmate. My last lodger was a woman - a student. History of art. Same with the one before her. And they were perfectly nice, but we didn’t have much in common, you know?” 

There had been a safety in having a woman there instead of a man. He’d told the first one that he was a homosexual, when she’d voiced suspicion about a man living on his own being happy to share his flat with a woman. And the next woman had been recommended by the first, so she likely knew, too, though they’d never talked about. And he’d liked them. They were quiet and conscientious - always studying - and stylish, and they’d seemed to appreciate the work he put into the flat. But it had been a bit boring, and a bit lonely. It could be fun to live with someone who’d want to watch the football and have a drink with him. Or, that was what he was telling himself.

Sam shifted in his seat, frowning down at his beer. “What about the army? That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“Really?”

He wouldn’t meet Jakes’s eyes, and he didn’t say anything.

“What if you took another year? Worked some. Actually experienced the real world. Institutions aren’t the be-all and end-all.”

“I’ve already been out of school more than a year.”

“I know. Give it another.”

“Oxford hasn’t been very good to me thus far.”

“Oh, come on, Sam, you almost get murdered _one time_ and you’re ready to write off an entire town?”

Sam looked at him for a moment, wide-eyed, then burst out laughing, and Jakes grinned a wolf’s grin across the table at him.

“At least think about it. But let me know before the new term starts, otherwise I might need to go looking for another student.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want that. Students are horrible.”

Now Jakes laughed, and they went on to talk about other things - students. Morse, and how ridiculous he was. Things that made both of them laugh.

 

A week went by after that, and then a few more days, and Jakes was sure Sam wouldn’t get back to him. That he was set on the army, and that was that. 

But then, one evening leaving work, there was a familiar mop of dark hair, and an almost-mischievous grin under it. Sam was leaning up against Jakes’s car in the carpark, and he greeted him with a soft, casual “Hello, Sergeant Jakes.”

“Hello, Sam.” 

They just looked at each other for a moment, before Sam laughed softly and pushed off the car to stand up straight. “Fancy a pint? Or maybe a flatmate?”

Jakes just stared at him for a moment, and Sam laughed again.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going into the army.”

“Not yet.”

“All right. I do still need a lodger.”

“Great.”

“What are you going to tell your parents?”

The younger man shrugged. “I’ll figure something out. You already told Mum we met in a pub. We could’ve become friendly. You could’ve told me you needed a lodger.”

“All right.”

“Great. Dad!”

Jakes’s shoulders tensed, and he turned to see Thursday making his way towards them.

“Sam. What’s this?”

“I’ve found somewhere to live.”

“Have you, now?”

“Mmhm. Sergeant Jakes needs a lodger.”

“Oh? Do you now.” Thursday frowned at his sergeant.

Jakes nodded, actively trying to keep his expression cool and neutral. “I do, sir.”

“What about Morse?”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. And Sam did too, a soft scoff poorly covered with a cough. Neither of them disliked Morse, but both knew that would be a terrible idea.

“No, you’re right,” Thursday replied, seeming to realize what a mistake that combination would be. “But you don’t need to take Sam, you’re not obliged to me or my family like that.”

“No, sir, it’s all right. I’d’ve turned him down if I wanted to. My last few lodgers were students. It’d be nice to have another working man in the flat, for a change.”

“Well… all right. But toss him out on his arse if he’s a bad lodger, you’re under no obligation to me on that count. And I’ve lived with him for a long time, I know what an irritant he can be.”

“Hey!” Sam exclaimed, but they were both smiling. Jakes didn’t attempt to join them. He preferred to keep apart from that whole dynamic. From family things.

“And you can afford it, Sam?”

“I can.”

“Good. Now come home, we’ll discuss it with your mother, too.” He turned back to Jakes. “You’re sure?”

“I am, sir.”

“Well all right then. Come along, son.” And Thursday set off across the carpark, Sam loping behind him, the matter apparently settled.

 

And a week later there was Sam, with a suitcase and two boxes, and Joan helping him carry them. Jakes was relieved by that. He’d not wanted his governor in his private space, and apparently Thursday had agreed that that was a bridge too far. Joan complained about it, but she grinned at Jakes, and took in his flat with an appraising air, ending in a nod.

“Very nice, Peter.”

Sam stuck his head out of his room. “You get to call him Peter? Why?”

“Because he took me out once, silly.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Really.” His eyes slid from Joan to Jakes, and the older man had to look away to keep from laughing. What a disaster that date had been. And Sam knew at least part of why, of course. Jakes had stopped doing that, now. Stopped trying to pretend.

Sam disappeared back into his room and Joan shot Jakes a grin. “Better watch out, he’s still a child, he’ll ruin everything here.”

“Hey!” Sam emerged fully from his room, hands on hips. “I am not and I will not! I like Peter’s flat, I’ll look after it.” He met Jakes’s eyes. “Swear. Now - can I put my records in here with yours?”

“Of course. You can use the record player if you don’t have your own.”

Sam grinned at him. “Thanks!” And disappeared again.

Joan shot an arched eyebrow at Jakes. “I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Joan. Be seeing you.”

“Mmhm. Bye, Peter.” 

 

Sam settled in quickly, and with remarkable ease. Of course, they were already friends, and everyone Jakes had shared flats with before had been strangers. This was easier. They knew each other. Knew some of each other’s secrets. And they liked the same things. Music, and football. Chips, sausages, eggs. And Sam was young, but Jakes was impressed with how well turned-out he was, and how responsible. Within the first week there was a session of shoe-shining at the little dining table, both of them working away and talking about how they kept their wardrobes in order, so they had that in common, too. And even after a fortnight, Sam was still offering to do the washing up, and wrapping up leftovers, and sweeping - things he could have just been doing to be polite, but it didn’t seem that way. He had a lot of energy, and he seemed genuinely to want to help out, to be a good flatmate. And there was a lot to be said for that.

Sam also liked to cook, which Jakes found a little more charming than he should have. He’d come home after a late night at the station during Sam’s second week in the flat, and found the younger man in the kitchen, surrounded by more bowls and pans than Jakes had known he'd owned, sleeves rolled up and hair lank from the heat from the stove. And Sam had smiled a huge smile at him and announced “I’ve made soup! Are you hungry?”

“You’ve made soup.”

“Yes. I got bored.”

Jakes just laughed softly, and they settled in to eat together. The soup was a bit over-salted, but otherwise edible. And after he expressed some admiration for Sam’s cooking, he discovered it was an easy way to make him bashful. He’d actually blushed at Jake’s compliment.

The two of them usually made a lot of prepared meals - frozen things, fish fingers and the like - and ate when they got a chance, which wasn’t often together. But at least once a week, Sam would cook and they’d either eat together or Jakes would come home to something being kept warm in the oven.

And they developed other routines, too, without really thinking about it. Watching matches was one - they’d have beers and crisps and yell at the television. Making their own fun was another. Neither of them was going out as much anymore, after everything that had happened. They’d go to pubs with their other friends or coworkers, but they weren’t going to the bars and clubs very often now. And if they both found themselves home on a weekend night, they’d do something together - watch the telly, or play records and argue about music. 

It was nice, having someone sharing the space. Someone sitting at the other end of the couch. Someone who was just _there_ , who could be relied upon. Who’d ask how his day was, and seemed genuinely interested - and whose day Jakes was genuinely interested in hearing about, too, which wasn’t a terribly common thing. Sam was stubborn and he made Jakes laugh, and Jakes really cared about him in a way he cared about few other people. And maybe that had started from sympathy and a sense of solidarity, but now it was something even less familiar in Jakes’s life. Friendship. Companionship, even. 

 

He was aware Sam was attracted to him, of course - he couldn’t account for the younger man’s taste, but he was aware. He noticed things like that. Being interested in men in their world, you had to be alert to small things. To lingering glances, touches that seemed almost accidental or friendly, but meant something more. Sometimes Sam would sit closer than normal, or their feet would touch under the table while they ate, or he’d flop down on the couch while Jakes was reading or watching telly, and nudge his leg to get his attention, make him talk to him. Other than Brian, no one else ever really seemed to want - to dare - to touch Jakes, and usually even Brian kept his distance. But whatever warned most people off, Sam didn’t seem to notice. And Jakes couldn’t bring himself to mind. 

Sometimes he’d even relax into the touch a little, or let a moment drag on until it took on a charge, because he did like it. The warmth of the young man’s hand, radiating through his shirt to his own cool skin. A pause between smiling and looking away. They felt nice. But it didn’t go further than that. He didn’t let it. If there was one thing Peter Jakes had in his life, it was self-control.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tweaked Sam's implied age a little, but I think it's within the logical confines of the canon.
> 
> Jakes's past and trauma comes up in this chapter - nothing explicit, but proceed with caution if necessary.
> 
> See the end of the chapter for a historical note.

Jakes liked to feel that he had power over himself, over the situations around him. But what he never accounted for was the effect of other people on his self-control - people he cared about, and who cared about him. There had been so few of those in the past that he didn’t factor them into the careful calculations of how he lived his life.

And Sam was better at breaching the walls Jakes built around himself than anyone else he knew. 

 

Under normal circumstances, if it had gone too far, if Sam had seemed to be too hung up on him, too liable to get hurt, Jakes would have put an end to it. Had a conversation with him. But they were friends, and maybe his desire for that friendship, that companionship - for joking and laughing and quietly spending time together - blinded him to it. Or maybe it was his simple desire for Sam, because there was that, too. Sam was unquestionably attractive, and Jakes unquestionably liked it when he got close, when he gave glances that said that he found this angular, dour man attractive, this man who found his own face too severe, his own looks too dark.

But it all came to a head so suddenly that Jakes might not have been able to mitigate it even if he had been thinking straight.

It was a Saturday night a few months after Sam had moved in - after they had fallen into their rhythm of shared meals, football matches, good-natured arguments over inconsequential things, and weekend nights spent with the telly or their records.

This was a record night. Sam had bought some new ones and was trying them out on his flatmate. Jakes didn’t have much of a taste for the dreamy new heights of rock-n-roll, played by shaggy-haired blokes in stupid outfits who took far too many drugs, but he liked R&B and soul, especially American stuff. Things that had a good beat, a good sound. Sam liked both, and was always trying to get Jakes to change his mind about everyone from The Beatles to Wildwood. It was a lost cause. And if they both liked French pop, well, they didn’t talk about that as much. But Sam did have some great French records he’d stolen off Joan.

It was the soul that got Jakes up and off the couch, finally. Sam had been dancing around for a few songs already, and he was grinning, his cheeks flushed, and he started laughing as Jakes started to dance, too. “You really are a terrible dancer,” he panted over the music, eyes crinkled with a suppressed laugh.

Jakes just shook his head in time with the beat, smiling at him, then grabbed him, swinging him around - not even the right kind of move for that kind of music, but it made a louder laugh burst out of Sam as he almost lost his footing. Then Jakes released him, and for a moment they were close - very close. Almost chest-to-chest, the air between then charged, warm, Sam’s expression soft.

And then Jakes stepped away, stepped back. Just one step, but it was enough. Sam’s expression changed, his eyes going cold, and for a moment he resembled his father in his hardest, strongest moments. It was disconcerting, leaving Jakes blinking, chest tightening, the moment having shifted to something he couldn’t define and knew he couldn’t control.

“What the hell, Peter!” The words shot from Sam like an ordinance round. Fast and strong and dangerous. 

Was this the same man from a moment ago, the one whose warm hand Jakes had gripped as he spun him around, whose laugh had drowned out of the music for a perfect second?

Of course it was. And the change in him was Jakes’s fault. Them both standing there, perfectly still and apart and cold, the music playing on, unaware of the change in the room’s mood - this was his fault. He’d let it get out of hand.

“What?” he shot back. The best defense is an offense, and all that. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you! Why do you do that - why are you doing _this_?”

“What, doing what?”

“You know perfectly well!” Sam jabbed out an arm, turned off the music, the silence falling without the thud it deserved. “Every time we get close, every time something happens… something almost happens… you pull away! You do this!” He gestured at Jakes, taking in all of him. His stiff pose, only a step removed from a recruit at attention. The squaring of his shoulders, no longer relaxed. The defensive coldness sparking in his eyes. “I _like_ you, and I know you know it. And you like me! So why are you doing this?! Why won’t you just… that was nice! And then you ruined it! You always ruin it!”

Jakes took a deep breath. None of it was untrue, of course. Sam acted like he was a bit daft, but he wasn’t. He understood things, saw things, just like his whole family did. “You’re too young.”

“I’m not!” His cheeks were red with rage now, instead of happiness, but he must have heard the strain or pure volume of his voice, because his next words were even, low. “I’m not. I’m almost twenty-one.”

“Still not legal.”

“So? A year ago that law didn’t even exist and it wouldn’t matter what age I was. And you’re not even that much older than me. And I know you were doing this… doing things… before you were the magical age of twenty-one.”

“That’s not what matters.”

“So? What is? You’re barely older than me. I’ve been with older blokes than you. Much older.”

Jakes winced. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t like thinking about what Sam might have done - not after what had happened, and what might have come of it.

“Oh, fuck you. So I can’t be with you but I can’t be with anyone else, either? Make up your mind.”

“That’s not it!”

It had been his voice’s turn to break, now, and across from him Sam went very still again. 

“Then what is it?” Sam asked, and it was the unexpected softness of it, the unexpected gentleness, that broke through Jakes’s barriers. Again. How was Sam so good at this?

Jakes looked away, then went and sat at the table in the corner, back against the wall, one arm on the tabletop in a poor, too-tight imitation of casualness. Sam didn’t join him, just stood in the middle of the room, watching. Seeing the defensive hunch of Jakes’s shoulders come up further, his eyes train themselves on the slightly worn carpet they both tried to keep looking clean and neat.

“What do you know about Blenheim Vale?”

Sam blinked, confused. He’d wondered about it, of course. He’d even asked Morse, but the detective had only said it wasn’t his story to tell. It had been something he’d overheard between his father and his mother, before he’d even really known Jakes - ‘He and Morse are friends now?’ ‘They are. He’s different, since Blenheim. They both are.’ ‘We all are.’ ‘I know.’ And then a long pause, but then ‘It’s softened him, I think. Maybe it’s a good thing.’ But it didn’t look like a good thing, not right then. Jakes looked pale and nervous and far too tightly-wound and Sam didn’t like it at all.

“Only what the newspapers said,” he responded. “I read everything I could about it, though. Trying to understand what had happened… why it happened.” His father had been in the hospital so long. They’d been so unsure what would happen. His mother had been so distraught, and Morse had been in jail, and no one had been speaking about it. So he’d read the news instead.

“I didn’t read it. Did they say, did your father say, that it was a cover-up? Did they say what it was covering up?”

Sam shook his head. “Only hints.”

Jakes glanced up at him now, taking him in. There was a question in his eyes, but he looked away before Sam could tell if he’d had it answered. “They were abusing the boys there. Certain boys, chosen boys. For a long time. Powerful men… men who’d do a lot to cover up what happened. What they liked. What they did… What they did to us.”

There was another silence, but this one didn’t fall - it hovered between them, unsure, hurting. Then Sam took a step forward.

“Peter…”

“I can’t be like them!”

The words wrenched from him with such force that Sam almost took a step backwards again, but he held his ground, his response shooting back just as fast. “You aren’t!” It was sharp and uncalculated. Like there was nothing he was surer of, no question to it - because there wasn’t. But Jakes didn’t look up at him, so he took a step closer, his voice going softer, but just as definite. “Peter, you aren’t. I’m not a child. And all you’ve ever done is protect me… you’re even trying to protect me now, you fool. You aren’t like them.”

When Jakes did look up a moment later, there were tears standing in his eyes, and Sam had never experienced heartbreak before, but he felt it then, in a nauseous roiling of his stomach and a faintness and a desperate need to hold this man and never let go. So he did. He took Jakes’s hands and pulled him up to standing, and wrapped his arms around him as the tears did come and his long angular body seemed to reassemble itself into new, discordant shapes, hunched and awkward as the first sob wracked his body, as he pressed his face into the curve of Sam’s neck. Through that, Sam held him, and eventually led him to the couch and sat quiet as Jakes curled against him. He seemed remarkably small like that. Sam stroked his back gently, and said nothing. Not until Jakes eventually cried himself out, and relaxed back into Sam’s touch. He didn’t shift away, but he also didn’t look up at Sam, and Sam could feel the embarrassment radiating off him.

“You’re all right,” he murmured, then turned his head and gingerly pressed a kiss into Jake’s mussed hair. The other man sighed softly against his chest.

“I’m not all right, I’m a disaster. And I hurt you.”

“I’m all right. We’re both all right.” He ducked his head, and when he still couldn’t get eye contact with Jakes he nudged his chin up with a finger. “I really like you, Peter. And I meant everything I just said, and I know you know it. Liking me back… it’s not like that. It’s not the same.”

There was a pause before Jakes breathed a soft “I know.”

And then Sam smiled. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consensual sexual acts between men were decriminalized on a fairly limited basis in England and Wales in June 1967. The age of consent was set at 21, as opposed to 16 for heterosexual couples. Hence part of Peter's anxiety about Sam's age.
> 
> For more information, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBT_rights_in_the_United_Kingdom#Decriminalisation_of_homosexual_acts


	6. Chapter 6

Things were different after that. Better. They didn’t talk about the fight or Jakes’s tears again, but they eased into something more comfortable. Something where Jakes let Sam touch him, and stayed where he was, didn’t move away. Where they shared smiles and moments without feeling the need to break them. 

Jakes - or, no, Peter. He was Peter now, at least in the small circle of the flat, newly used to a name almost no one he knew ever said. 

Peter kissed Sam for the first time that same night. They had disentangled themselves on the couch and he’d gone to make tea. There was comfort in it, the familiar movements and sounds and smells, and it gave him a chance to splash cold water on his face and get himself together a little. And then there was Sam, standing in the doorway, waiting to receive his cuppa. But Peter had paused, and met his eyes. “I’m sorry if I’ve been an idiot.”

Sam just shrugged. “You’re all right. I mean, you have been an idiot. But I like you, so you’re all right.”

And Peter had laughed, and put down the cups of tea, and Sam had gone just a little stiff, a little awkward - and even more so as Peter crossed the small space and touched his cheek, and then kissed him, gently, mouth and eyes closed.

And then Sam had laughed softly against his skin.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Peter had said.

“Well, I’m glad you finally did,” Sam had shot back. And Peter had laughed, and gone to fetch their teas.

 

They eased into this new thing gradually, ginger of each other and the little shared life they had already created. There were moments of friction - of expectations unspoken and not met. Of the small annoyances that come with sharing space with anyone, and getting used to them in new ways. But in all, it was surprisingly easy. The friendship they had forged among fear and shared experience had already grown into the companionship of happily shared space, and the new motions and feelings that came after fit with remarkable ease into the partnership they had already forged. 

Kisses came at the end of shared meals. A warm body tucked itself under a draped arm while they watched matches on telly - until they both got worked up and had to disentangle so they could shout and gesture at the figures on the screen. Dancing was a bit harder, a bit more awkward, not least because it carried memories of the night it had almost all fallen apart before they fell together. But soul ballads were unquestionably good to dance slow to, swaying on the carpet with the curtains pulled tight across the sitting room windows. And Peter’s bad dancing didn’t carry that far. Sam didn’t laugh at his awkwardness when he was pressed up against him, with his arms wrapped around his back.

It took an intense match on the telly, and a few beers for courage, before passion came into play, and when it did it was as fumbling as those things often are, but they got better with practice. And Peter was still surprised that Sam found him as attractive as he found Sam. Because yes, he had a lot of self-confidence, but it was more about how he presented himself - his clothes, his attitude. He knew he was a bit odd looking, a bit bird-like and harsh, while Sam was beautiful. But he learned not to question it, because it only annoyed Sam. Sam, who looked at him with hungry eyes in his room, when they were naked, longing breath catching in their throats, but also at the oddest moments - when he was just coming in from work, or doing the washing up, or sitting on the couch reading, and then they’d be tumbling into bed, and laughing and learning what each other liked.

 

It was Sam who brought up the subject of their bedrooms. 

They always had sex in Peter’s room. He’d had lubricant, and he had a full-size bed, while Sam just had a single. And when they did it at night Sam would sleep over after, dropping quickly into the same untroubled heavy sleep as the first night he’d slept in the flat, after the club raid. But one night he stayed awake, and prodded at Peter’s dozing form, making him mumble and turn over to look at him. 

“Why don’t we share a room?”

“Is that a question about my stance on the matter, or a proposition?”

“…Both?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“All right, then.”

And that was that. Sam left most of his things in his room, to maintain some semblance of their being flatmates. But he slept in Peter’s room. And when he turned twenty-one that summer, they had a small private celebration a few days before - just them and Brian, the only friend who knew about this life they were forming together. And then on the day proper, Peter hovered in Sam’s bedroom doorway, already perfectly turned out and ready for work, watching Sam get ready, too, and asked “Would you like to truly move into my room, now?”

And Sam had kissed him, and that was that.

 

Peter even helped him move, though he usually left Sam’s things to him. They shared tasks in the kitchen, and cleaned the shared spaces together, but their rooms and private possessions had been largely that - private. Separate in an unspoken way that was breaking down, and only made both of them feel warm and secure as it did.

Sam wasn’t moving all his things, but he took armfuls of clothes into Peter’s room and stowed them in the wardrobe and dresser, and Peter brought in armfuls of his things - shirts he didn’t wear often, casual clothes he didn’t often need - into Sam’s room and started storing them there. Sam didn’t have that much else, he hadn’t brought a lot. But he left a few drawers of odd bits and pieces, and the photos of his family, because they’d talked about it and Peter couldn’t quite face having Thursday looking on from a flimsy gold frame when he was naked. 

One of the family photos did make it into the living room, though, where it was the only one mixed in among books and records and a vase Peter had bought on a whim even though he never brought home flowers. And that was all right. Peter didn’t mind having the Thursdays there, in that part of his space. He knew they were important to Sam, and though that was an unfamiliar feeling to him, he didn’t mind sharing his space and this lovely man - who worried about them, who spent more time with his mum now that Joan was gone - with them.

 

It was a few weeks after Sam’s birthday, after his move to Peter’s room, that Peter found the bundle in the wardrobe. They’d been out for a walk the day before, out into the fields beyond the town, and he was putting away his weekend clothes - the boots that he’d wiped the mud off of, the jacket he hadn’t needed in the warm afternoon. When he slid the boots into the wardrobe they hit something, and the door wouldn’t close because of it, so he went digging for whatever he had dislodged, cursing mildly under his breath at how crowded both the wardrobes were. How did two men own so many clothes?

He pulled out a shopping bag, wrapped tight around something soft, and just held it for a moment, wondering what it was, wondering if he should just put it back and pretend he’d never found it. But he had a notion. Something in the lightweight heft of the bundle, and the sliver of blue and green fabric revealed where the paper had been turned back by him shoving his shoes into the space where it had been hidden. And then there was Sam, coming down the corridor to the room, calling his name with a question in his voice. He’d been a long time.

“In here.”

Sam came around the corner and stopped dead, staring down at Peter’s crouching form and the bundle in his hands. 

“This yours?” Maybe it wasn’t. It could have belonged to one of the girls who’d lived there before.

But Sam nodded. He’d gone very pale, in that way he did when he was worried, upset, and it made Peter’s heart beat fast, anxious. He didn’t like when Sam was feeling like that, looking like that. He did always want to protect him, above anything else. 

But putting the bundle away, pretending he’d never seen it, that didn’t seem like protection. Somehow, it seemed like hurting him.

“Can I…” He touched the edge of the paper, asking if he could open the bag.

Sam shrugged, and there was a touch of defiance in his eyes now. Daring Peter to be upset, maybe, as Peter reached into the bag and pulled out exactly what he’d expected - a simple, colorblocked minidress, in a lightweight summer fabric, something new and synthetic. They both looked at it for a moment, and then Peter stood up, shaking it out to see it better. It was really quite stylish.

“Where’d you get it?” he asked. It seemed an easier question than the other things he needed to ask. But it made Sam frown, maybe because it wasn’t the most obvious of the questions filling the room.

“Joanie.”

Peter smiled. “Thought so. She does have good taste.”

Sam laughed softly and looked away. He was still so pale.

“Why’d you hide it, Sam?”

He didn’t look back. “It’s not your thing, is it. Brian said. You don’t like it, do you.”

Peter thought back to the last few months. To that first night, the neat eyeliner around Sam’s eyes. He’d done that a few times since, when Brian had come over for dinner. Maybe because they had been occasions, almost dinner parties, Sam happily making a big meal and Brian bringing a bottle of wine, but maybe also because it was Brian - the two of them sharing something Peter didn’t, and talking quietly when Peter did the washing up. The thought aroused no jealousy, but rather something worse - a sharp pain digging into his chest because Sam had felt he needed to hide this from him, that there was no place for it in their life.

“Sam…” The younger man had been staring at the floor, but at the gentleness of the tone, he met Peter’s eyes. “I like you being you. I want to see you being you…” He held out the arm the dress was draped over, expecting Sam to take it, but instead Sam took it as an invitation for an embrace and came forward, pressing himself against Peter’s chest with a sigh. So they did that instead, Peter holding him close and quiet, and briefly burying his face in Sam’s soft, clean-scented hair. “I like _you_ ,” he said, after a moment, words murmured close to Sam’s scalp, not pulling away. “Whatever you do. I like your eyeliner, it’s beautiful. And applied better than your sister’s.” That made Sam laugh softly, which felt better. “I’m curious what else you have, besides the eyeliner. And… I want to see you happy. I don’t care what you wear. You’ll look good in anything. And I wager this suits your complexion.”

Sam laughed again, his face still pressed again Peter’s chest. “You mean it?”

“Yes. _You’re_ my thing, every part of you. Understand? If this is part of you, then it’s my thing. I hate that you felt like you needed to hide it from me… Please wear it, if you want.”

Sam pulled back and looked up at him, checking his expression. He was already so good at reading him, at knowing what Peter’s face looked like when he was closing off, keeping his feelings in. This wasn’t one of those times, and he pressed up and kissed Peter so suddenly then it almost knocked them both off balance, and nerves and relief escaped in laughter as they pulled apart. Sam took the dress. “Now?”

“If you want.”

Sam run the soft fabric through his hands, then nodded, quick - a decision made. 

Peter released him. “I’ll make some tea.”

“I just did.”

“Then I’ll drink it and make more.”

 

It took Sam a few minutes - long enough that Peter did in fact finish his already-cooled cup of tea, and pour Sam’s cold one down the sink, and start the kettle again. The soft sound of bare feet on carpet was all that told him Sam had emerged, and he stuck his head out of the kitchen to be met by the sweetest sight. 

The dress fit Sam well, though it hung loose over his flat chest - Peter wondered idly if he had a bra to stuff, or if it that had been a bridge too far in his relationship with his sister. And Peter had been right, the colors looked very nice with Sam’s dark hair and eyes, brought out further by how he’d applied a bold swipe of blue-green eyeshadow, matched to the tones of the fabric. He’d done his eyeliner, too, and was wearing lipstick, shiny but fairly neutral on lips now curling into a soft smile as he asked “What?”

“You’re lovely.”

Sam blushed, looking away, and Peter laughed and crossed the room, sweeping him into his arms and planting a kiss on his lips. 

“Really, Sam. You look lovely. I like this.” He touched the corner of Sam’s eye lightly, and Sam laughed softly, shying away - he was ticklish. “It’s just this? You don’t have a wig or anything?”

Sam shook his head.

“Do you want one?” He’d buy it for him. He’d buy anything for him, if it made that soft, proud smile come up again, like it had the second time Peter had called him lovely.

He shook his head again. “No, I like it short.”

Peter grinned. “Good. I prefer women with short hair.”

“You prefer _men_.” There was a laugh in it, but also that hint of insecurity from before. 

“I prefer _you_.”

Sam laughed louder now, and it was happier, and then one of those moments opened up between them - quiet and still as they regarded each other, standing close, arms around each other’s waists. “I love you.”

It was the first time either of them had said it, and something went tight and hot and just a little terrified in Peter’s chest, but it faded just as fast as it had come and he grinned a slow grin, eyes locked on Sam’s. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented and kudos'ed so far - I really appreciate your appreciation.
> 
> I'll try to get the last three chapters up this week!


	7. Chapter 7

The dress got tucked back into the wardrobe later. It wasn’t the sort of thing you left out. And they talked about it, lying in bed that night, Peter’s head resting against Sam’s chest like he liked to do, Sam stroking a hand lightly up and down his back before he said, softly, “I don’t want to be a woman, you know. Some blokes do.”

“I know. It’s hard for them.” And he was glad that wasn’t it - not that he wouldn’t have supported Sam though anything, but because he knew it was hard, that it hurt, and he didn’t want anything to be hard for Sam, to hurt him.

“Mmhm. I just like it, you know? Dressing in the clothes, doing my makeup.”

“Do you want to do it like Brian? Like Blanche? Get done up, go out?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Mostly I just want to wear it, if it’s what feels right on the day, and I’m home… going out is another thing. And it’s risky.”

“I know.” There was such a chance of getting beaten. Or getting brought in by an overenthusiastic patrolman, on trumped-up charges. “Whatever you want to do, though, it’s all right.”

“I might want to start by asking Brian where he gets shoes for massive men’s feet.”

That made Peter laugh. “I’m sure he has all sorts of advice. And he’ll be thrilled to share it.” And that was the end of the discussion.

 

There was the slightest shift in Sam, after that. He wore his eyeliner a bit more, and sometimes did his lips, too, often when they were just spending time together together on quiet weekend afternoons. But the dress didn’t come out again, and Peter started to worry. He wasn’t sure Sam really knew that this was all right with him, that even if he wanted to do full drag like Blanche, Peter would support it. He worried over it so much that he asked Brian about it, but Brian didn’t have suggestions beyond “Just make sure he knows you like it.” And he felt like he’d already tried that.

The answer came clear one day in the city center. They’d gone in so Peter could help Sam pick out new shirts for work; Sam’s were a bit worn, and he happily acknowledged that Peter had a better eye for fit and quality than he did. So they wandered M&S, picked up a treat for supper in the food hall, and wound their way up to the men’s department. On the way they went by the kitchenwares, and Sam glanced at glasses, at pots and pans, but then his step faltered, almost coming up short, Peter almost running into him from behind. Something had caught his eye, and though he moved on quickly, Peter saw what it was. An apron - boldly, almost psychedelically floral, but with a bit of a frill around the edge. Sam apparently wasn’t as devoted to modern clean lines as Peter or Joan.

Peter watched carefully, when they left the men’s department with their purchases, and noted that Sam looked towards the apron again as they passed it. He liked it, but wasn’t going to say anything - probably wise, in the Saturday shopping crowds. But they did need an apron. Sam’d been cooking with a teatowel tucked into his waistband for months.

So Peter went back, later that week, slipping out of work early so he could get in before closing. The shopgirl was sweet, telling him his wife - then she checked his hand, amended ‘girlfriend’ - would love it, that it had been very popular since it had come in. He smiled at her and told her he was sure it would be a hit.

And it was. Sam’s face lit up when he opened the neatly-wrapped package, and he even uttered a “How did you know?”

“I am a detective, you know,” Peter shot back, and Sam laughed and kissed him and put the thing on immediately, making Peter tie it for him. He looked very cute in it, and got another kiss once Peter was finished cursing at the thing’s ties.

And it worked. Sam wore the apron often, and never looked any less adorable in it, and something seemed to relax. He got another dress, somehow - Peter didn’t ask about his methods - and this one was longer, looser, a bit better for wearing around the flat. And wear it around the flat he did. Not often, just twice over the next six weeks or so, but enough that Peter could tell that something had changed, that he wasn’t as worried about it anymore. And maybe Peter wasn’t as fond of the new dress - he preferred the exactness of the mini to this new, more flowing hippy thing that was coming into fashion - but he could tolerate it if it meant Sam was comfortable and happy.

Brian came over more often, too. It gave them a chance to talk about the interest they shared, and Sam got to cook, to show off a bit. He was there every fortnight or three weeks. He even started bringing flowers to put in Peter’s previously unused vase, and it was nice. Having an excuse to see an old friend, and to share a friendship with Sam.

 

They were expecting Brian that Friday night when there was a knock at the door. Peter was only half-dressed - they’d gotten up to some things in the afternoon, and he’d let Sam take the first shower so he could get ready and start cooking. He heard Sam calling “Door!” from the kitchen; he shot back “Sam! I’m not decent!” and was met with a laughing “Fine, I’ll get it!”

And then the door opening and then, oddly, silence - not Brian’s usual booming laugh of greeting - and the door clicking back into place.

“Sam?” Peter emerged from the bedroom, pulling his jumper down over his head. The younger man was stood in the corridor near the front door, face green-pale in a way Peter hadn’t seen in what felt like a long time. “What’s wrong?”

Sam’s eyes flickered to the door. When he spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper. “It was my Dad.”

“What?”

Sam was still stood stock-still by the door, one hand toying nervously with the hem of his apron. He’d done his face, too, and he’d looked so lovely and happy just a few minutes before as Peter annoyed him at the bathroom mirror, kissing behind his ears and pressing his wet hair into Sam’s carefully dried and styled locks while he tried to get his lipstick on neatly.

Peter closed the steps between them and gathered him up into his arms, guided him into the sitting room, got him settled on the sofa before he crouched in front of him. “Did he say anything?”

He nodded. “To tell you there was a case, that he’d be downstairs…”

Peter reached out, ran a hand through Sam’s hair. “Then I need to go.”

“I know.”

“I want to stay.”

“I know.”

“It will be all right, love.”

That didn’t get an ‘I know.’ Sam looked so shaken. So utterly bereft. Peter pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“It _will_ be all right. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I’ll make it all right. We’ll make it all right. Whatever happens.”

That, at least, got a little nod. Peter kissed him again.

“Brian will be here soon. Feed him, yeah? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Sam nodded, and it broke Peter’s heart to leave him there, but he had to. If he didn’t show up to work, it would be worse for them. He grabbed his coat off the rack by the door and headed downstairs - and, blessedly, ran into Brian coming up.

Brian took one look at him and stopped dead, the smile falling from his face. “What is it?”

“Sam’s dad -“

“The grumpy-looking bloke sitting in the Jag with the dishy ginger?”

“Yeah, him.” Small mercies, if Morse was with him. “He came to the door.”

“How bad?”

“Apron, face. He’s really…”

“I’ll stay with him, cheer him up. You’ve got a case?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back as soon as I can - thanks, Brian.”

“No worries. Anything for that boy. And also you. But mostly him.”

Peter did actually manage a small chuckle at that, and took the rest of the stairs two at a time.

 

They were waiting for him, Thursday and Morse, and they pulled away from the kerb in silence. It took two blocks before Thursday spoke up, but it was just to fill him in on the case. A murder. A robbery, possibly a drug deal gone bad. The victim’s housemate’s dad was on the council, so it was all hands on deck.

And that was it. Nothing else came up. It was all business. And the case wasn’t too taxing, either. It rapidly became clear that it had been another of the housemates that had done the deed, and they caught him trying to get on a bus out of town, and then they were finished. It wasn’t even morning yet. And then the three of them were standing by the Jag, and the same uncomfortable silence fell as when he’d climbed into the car hours before. At least, it felt uncomfortable to Peter.

Morse broke it to do some negotiating about who he’d take home and in what order. It was Thursday first, and he sat silent in the front seat until they pulled up in front of his house. There was a moment - it seemed to stretch into minutes, but was probably only seconds - before he turned and looked at Peter. “Remind Sam he’s expected at Sunday dinner, will you?”

Peter blinked, maybe a bit too much, then nodded. “Of course, sir.”

Thursday glanced at the house. A light was on in an upstairs window. “You too, you know. And you, Morse. Win’d have my hide if she thought I wasn’t reminding you two that you’re always welcome.”

“Thank you, sir,” they both said, in the same moment. 

And then he nodded and got out, and Peter got in the front seat. 

Morse was at least kind enough to wait a block before he started in. “What was that when we picked you up? What happened?”

“I don’t know, why didn’t you call first!”

“It was Thursday’s idea! Just pick you up on the way.”

“Christ.” Peter sat forward and put his hands over his face.

“What did he see?”

“Sam.” He glanced over at Morse. “You can’t tell this to anyone.”

“Of course not.” He seemed insulted at the very proposition. Good old Morse.

“Sam’s a bit… he likes women’s things. He wasn’t in a dress or anything, but his apron… his face…”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, you two are… aren’t you?”

“Bloody hell, Morse.”

“What? Aren’t you?”

Peter was silent for a minute before simply shrugging. “How’d you know?”

“Mostly all the moaning when he was spending all that time with his mum, when Joan was away.”

“I didn’t moan, I like his mum! I like them spending time together.”

“Yeah, but you obviously missed him.”

Peter went quiet again. Maybe he needed to be more careful. Maybe they both did. Had they gotten too comfortable? It had all been feeling so good.

“I don’t think anyone else would have noticed, you know. I only did because I knew the whole story - what was happening with his family, how you two got to know each other, you know…”

“Yeah.”

“I think you’re all right, if Thursday’s asking you to dinner.”

“That or he’ll have both our hides.”

“You know he’s not like that. Not about his kids.”

“What about me?”

Morse shrugged. “He didn’t punch you, did he.”

“Yeah, good point. You coming Sunday?”

“I have plans.”

“What kind of plans?”

“Plans to not get in the middle of whatever’s going to happen.”

“C’mon, Morse, we might need you in the middle.”

“No, this is your business.”

Peter let out a put-upon sigh. “Fine.”

 

When he let himself in, he was surprised to smell coffee and see a light on in the kitchen. It was still so early, barely dawn yet. He stuck his head into the room - it was Brian, in the middle of making himself some toast to go with the coffee.

“Mate, you didn’t have to stay.”

Brian just shrugged, sipping at his mug. “I wanted to.”

“How is he?”

“I don’t know. I think he finally went to sleep. He was in a bad way, though.”

“Yeah…”

“How was it, with his dad?”

Peter gave him the run-down. He was feeling a bit more confident now - maybe it really would be all right. Brian seemed to think so, too. Peter left him to his breakfast and slipped into the bedroom.

 

Sam was curled in a tight ball, covers pulled around him like he’d been trying to burrow in, trying to hide. He wasn't usually like that - he slept loosely, relaxed, taking up more than his share of the bed. Peter was the one who tended to curl up, make himself small. He'd done it when he slept alone, and he still did it, except now he had someone to curl against.

He sighed softly and sat down near Sam. The sound of feet on the floor or the shifting of the mattress woke him, and he blinked in the morning half-light, murmuring a soft “Peter?”

“Yeah. I’m back. You all right?”

Sam nodded and pressed against him, curled around him; Peter shifted and lay down, gathering him close.

“I think it might be all right, love. He didn’t say anything, but he made a point of telling me to remind you you’re expected at Sunday dinner.”

“Oh -“ Sam pulled away enough to look at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. And he reminded me I’m welcome, too. And Morse, but he’s already chickened out.”

“He might… that might be all right.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled a little. “You did promise.”

“Yeah, I did.” 

Sam shifted again, this time to kiss him and murmur a soft “I love you.” Peter said it back, and kissed him back, and then stripped down and climbed into bed beside him. They slept hard through half the day, exhausted by their brush with disaster.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second scene added to this chapter, 3/3/18 - so if you read it before then, take another look!

Peter had known as soon as the invitation was extended that he’d be needing to go along to Sunday dinner that week. It had been mentioned before, of course, but in the same polite way Morse was always invited to things - Thursday rather stiffly passing on messages from his wife, and knowing he’d be politely rejected and everything would continue on as it had been.

This had been different. And so on Sunday Peter put on one of his better suits and helped Sam with his tie - the younger man was achingly nervous, pale, his hands shaking - and drove them over to Sam’s family home.

When they got there, Thursday greeted them both at the door like it was nothing, with a nod, and a handshake for Peter. Win came out from the kitchen and embraced her son, and offered Peter a sunny welcome, like she was thrilled he’d finally accepted the offer of a meal. Maybe she was. And when Peter greeted her with a stiff “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Thursday,” she insisted that he call her Win. He did it once to please her, but it felt odd, and he caught Sam smiling a little out of the corner of his eye.

 

The three men settled in the sitting room, Sam at one end of the couch, Peter at the other, while Thursday took a chair. They talked about football - an easy subject with inexhaustible variations, and one they all liked.

Joan appeared maybe a quarter of an hour later, and stopped dead in the sitting room doorway, head tilting to the side as she considered Peter, who had stood up when she came in. There was a hint of a smile on her lips - like she was trying to hold back a much larger one, one that was betrayed by the laugh lines around her eyes. But all she said was that it was nice to see him, followed by a protest when her father told her to go help her mother.

“Why can’t Sam do it? He actually likes being in the kitchen!”

“Yes, but he has a guest.”

There was the smallest silence. That felt like a much larger admission of what was happening here than anyone had expected - Thursday least of all, probably. Sam was the one to smooth it over, with the eternal instinct of the annoying little brother. “Or do you want to stay in here and talk footy?”

“Or police work?” Peter proposed, knowing that that was what he and Thursday would be left with if football was taken off the table.

Joan gave them all an exasperated look and left the room, which Peter immediately regretted. Maybe she would have eased the awkwardness of this all, at least by a little.

 

When the meal was ready, they all gathered in the dining room - Thursday and his wife at the head and foot of the table, Sam and Joan on one side, Peter on the other trying not to meet either of their eyes too much - Sam because he was afraid how it might look, them locking eyes, and Joan because she kept making faces at him. Raised eyebrows, mostly, though she’d also pursed her lips at him once.

Conversation was a bit stilted. More so than when they’d been able to ease into the too-casual sport talk in the living room, just the three of them. Win in particular seemed a bit uncomfortable. Not about Peter’s presence, not that at all - it was more that she seemed painfully aware that a lot of the standard getting-to-know-you small talk wasn’t good ground to tread with Peter. Maybe someone had warned her; maybe she just had an instinct for it, or had gleaned enough from conversations to know what didn’t need saying. She didn’t ask where he’d grown up, what his family was like, where he’d gone to school, and she seemed a bit at a loss without those usual questions to fall back on. And Peter felt a bit sorry for that, but couldn’t do a lot to help, because all he had in his life was work and Sam, and one subject was banned at the Thursday family table and the other one was the whole reason this was happening.

Joan saved them, unintentionally. Thursday had complimented the roast, followed by a chorus of praise from Peter and Sam - it really was very good - and then Joan had smiled her cat’s smile and said “Bet it’s a nice change from bachelor cooking, hm?”

“That's where you're wrong” Peter had responded immediately, falling into the quick banter that had been the only truly enjoyable thing about their one short-lived date, “Your brother’s actually a good cook. And he makes too much, so I get fed, too.” He turned a smile to Win. “He must have inherited your skills, did you teach him?”

Win smiled at him, and then at her son. “Really? I don’t know if I can claim that…”

“Well,” Peter replied, “I’d like you give you the credit. This hopeless-in-the-kitchen bachelor thanks you, my diet has improved since Sam took the spare room.”

It was a neat bit of word work, stepping carefully around the truth of what his life was with Sam, and it made him feel a touch anxious, a touch flushed. But if anyone noticed, they didn’t show it. Win’s smile only warmed further, and conversation was easier after that. Still not easy, by any means, but a touch less awkward, which was all any of them could ask for, really.

 

When Sam slid into the passenger seat of Peter’s car at the end of the night he let out a long sigh, rolling his shoulders to work out the tension that had built there during the evening, but he had a smile for Peter, and he didn’t have that too-pale worried look about him anymore. “That went better than I expected,” he said quietly as they pulled out of the neighborhood, and Peter nodded.

“It did.” They had both been ready, somewhere deep inside, for a confrontation. A bust-up. Or a mistake, something that would breach the unspoken things that had been hovering in the air all weekend. But none of it had happened. There was still a touch of it out there - the potential for things to go bad, the crisis barely averted - but it seemed at bay, for the moment at least.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, of course.” He shot Sam a quick smile, and got one in return, and when they got home he got a kiss, too.

 

The next weekend they were both antsy, unsettled. They hadn't talked much about it, but they had both been nervous all week, still worried something might come of Thursday's discovery. That he might take Peter aside at work. That he might find and talk to Sam on his own.

But nothing happened. Thursday was his usual self at the station, professional, a bit gruff. Peter thought he caught him looking at him a few more times that usual, but he wrote that off to his own worry, and concentrated on his work instead. Sam didn't hear from his dad all week, though Win got in touch to remind him that they were having company for Sunday dinner. 

By Saturday, they were full of the pent-up energy of anxiety, and of the vague relief of nothing having happened after all. So they took a walk. It was early autumn, and the riverbanks were crowded with the students recently back from their summer holidays. But it wasn't difficult to get away from them, if you knew where to go, and eventually Peter and Sam came to rest on a bench with an unimpeded view of Oxford, and not a student in sight.

They sat quietly for a long time, Peter lounging, long legs stretched out in front of him, Sam sat forward, eyes on the town. The dreaming spires, and all that. "Do you ever think about leaving?" he asked, finally, without looking at Peter. Like he expected Oxford itself to give him an answer.

Peter looked over at him, and was silent for a moment, considering his answer. "Yes. I did more, before - before I had any friends on the force. Before you."

Sam glanced over at him and gave him a small, soft smile. "But now…"

He shrugged. "I still think about it. Oxford isn't all happy memories for me, is it. And sometimes I think it would be easier. But I'm not sure it would, really. We have friends here. Brian's here, and Morse, and your mates from school. And it's not exactly…" He sighed, shifted. He wanted to take Sam's hand, or tuck him under his arm, but they wouldn't be able to do that anywhere. Oxford wasn't the problem, when it came to that. It only made it a little worse, knowing people they knew might see them. But having people you knew around helped, too. People who could look out for you. "It's not easy anywhere. And if I were to stay a copper, it might be worse in other places. At least here I know I've got Morse on my side. And even your dad, I think, if push came to shove."

"Yeah. I mean - yes. He watches out for his bagmen."

"What about you? Do you want to leave?"

"Sometimes." His eyes drifted back to the town. "It's hard, isn't it. But I like being around my friends, our friends. And my family… I don't really want to leave them."

Peter murmured a soft agreement. He knew that. Sam loved his family, and leaving them behind would be hard for him. He didn't want him to have to do that.

Sam didn't say anything else, so Peter chucked him softly on the shoulder, knuckles lingering for just a moment before he pulled away. "So we won't go just yet, yeah? Maybe someday - it's always an option. If you want to go, I'll pick up and go."

Sam turned to him and smiled, and nodded. "Yeah. I know you would. But I think I want to stay. For now."

"Good. Then that's settled. I'm glad, I hate packing."

That got a laugh, and a bigger smile. They were quiet on their walk home, but they were both happier afterwards, the better for having talked.


	9. Christmas Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read this, note that I added another scene to Chapter 8 on 3/3 - so if you read it before then, do check that out.
> 
>  
> 
> I didn't really mean to end this Downton Abbey style with a Christmas chapter, but it happened anyway.

The subject of Peter going to Sunday dinner didn’t come up again, though over the next few weeks Sam did always report that his mother had asked after him. And Peter was perfectly happy to not have the invitation extended again by his governor. It was too uncomfortable. Enough had been done, and there was the implicit understanding that an open invitation always stood - that Mrs. Thursday would always be happy to see him and feed him - but that it was without formality, and therefore awkwardness could be avoided. And that was all anyone ever wanted. They were English, after all.

And it stayed that way until one weekend in mid-December. Sam was out doing something with his school friends, so Peter was alone when the telephone rang. He answered with a cheerful recitation of the number, but the cheer ran out of him when he heard the voice down the line.

“Hello, Peter? It’s Win Thursday.”

What felt like a thousand terrible scenarios piled into his mind in the same moment, running from something having happened to Sam, to something having happened to Thursday, to their having been found out. It didn’t matter that Win didn’t sound upset, just a little unsure. She had no reason to be calling, except - of course. Her son lived there, too.

“Yes, hello Mrs. Thursday - Sam’s out right now, can I take a message?”

“Call me Win, dear. And I know - I was hoping to speak to you.”

And there were the scenarios again. His voice might have been a bit strained when he replied “Oh?”

“Mmhm. It’s just that I was wondering something, and I can’t trust the men to give me a straight answer. What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Christmas?” Christ, he sounded dim. “To be entirely honest, ma’am, I think Morse and I were going to work all day and then have a bit of a festive piss up.” 

He hadn’t really meant to put it that way, but he’d been in a rush to say anything that didn’t sound like a question. Luckily, she laughed - louder and longer than he expected her to, reminding him that he did rather like her.

When she had regained herself, she spoke again. “Well, I was going to call him, too, but now I suppose I know the answer to that. You should come to ours. Both you and Morse. I know…” He knew what she was going to say. Neither of them had families to speak of - nowhere to go. But she changed tack. “I know festive piss ups are important, so I won’t stop you, but if you do it in my home I can serve you a nice dinner to go along with it. And Fred always brings out the good brandy, too.”

Peter had only just managed not to giggle like a maniac when she’s said 'piss up', but now he let himself laugh, softly. “Thank you, Mrs…”

“Win.”

“Win. That’s very kind -“

“No buts, Sergeant Jakes. I’d like to have you here. I know Fred would too, though he might not say it. He likes to keep an eye on his boys.” It took Peter a moment to realize she probably meant him and Morse, not him and Sam. “And I’m sure Sam and Joan would like the company.” Had there been a pause there, between ‘Sam’ and ‘Joan’? Or had he just imagined it, his own mind putting weight on her words? Hardly mattered, really.

“Thank you, Win. I’ll have to ask Sam, make sure he’s happy to have his flatmate there.”

She tsked. “You’re his friend, Peter, not his flatmate. That makes you good as family. I know he’ll say yes. And then the two of you can both work on convincing Morse. I’ve ordered a particularly large turkey this year, so I’ll not take no for an answer.”

He laughed again. “All right, Win. Thank you. I’ll see you on Christmas, if Sam says yes.”

“See you on Christmas, Peter.”

And she hung up. He stared at the receiver in his hand for a moment, murmuring a soft “Well… all right then” before he hung it up and went back to his book.

 

Sam said yes to Peter coming to Christmas, of course. Peter had known that would be the answer, but he hadn’t wanted to make that clear when he was on the phone with Win. Casting doubt on their closeness always seemed safer, even when he was going to end up at the family Christmas anyway.

Morse took quite a bit more work. There was some cajoling, and some bargaining, and just a touch of begging. Peter and Sam had to take him out as a pair one night, buy him a few drinks and convince him that it wouldn’t be arduous or unpleasant, that they actually did want him there, and that he’d be doing them a favor. He would, too. Having someone else in the mix - another motherless stray like Peter himself - made the whole thing look, and therefore feel, less strange. It was the Thursday family making sure Fred Thursday’s best men didn’t spend the holiday alone, not the Thursday family inviting one interloper into their mix.

In the end Morse said yes, begrudgingly, and it was all arranged. Sam would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning with his family, and then Peter and Morse would show up later, for Christmas dinner.

 

Peter had never much cared for Christmas. It was just a long empty day when you were an adult without a family, and it wasn't as though it had held any great joy for him as a child, either. But there was a certain excitement to it now. He'd bought gifts for Sam, and small things for the Thursdays and Morse, and the customary bottle of sherry for Brian. The flat was decorated, at Sam's insistence - not elaborately, but Sam had put a little artificial tree on a shelf by the record player, and hung a garland above the windows in the sitting room. There were packages, too, tucked in around the tree, waiting to be opened when they had time to themselves on Boxing Day.

And somehow, Christmas morning felt lonelier that year than it ever had before, because Sam was away, with his family, not warming their bed and refusing to get up like he usually did on holidays. But the morning was also better than it ever had been before, too, because Peter knew he would get to see Sam that afternoon, and have him at home again that night. It wasn't just the same routine, of getting up, going to the station, ignoring the looks from other officers who wondered why he always volunteered to work the Christmas shifts, who surely whispered about whether he even had a home to go to.

 

Sam had told him he didn't need to dress too smartly for dinner, that his family never did, but Peter ignored that directive and put on a suit and tie, then drove over to pick up Morse. The other detective had also, to Peter's mild surprise, put in a effort. His shirt was even ironed, albeit as half-heartedly as usual. He had a small bundle of gifts, and wore a martyr's expression.

"How did I let you talk me into this?"

"I think it was mostly Sam, to be fair. He'd very persuasive."

"You're lucky I like him."

"Mm. You buy me a gift?"

"I'm not going to tell you that. Did you get me something?"

"I'm not telling, either."

"I hope it's scotch."

"Nope, not getting me that way, clever cogs. Might be nothing at all. You'll find out when we get there."

Morse huffed a sigh and frowned out the window. Peter ignored him. He'd surely perk up at the Thursdays', once he had a drink and some food and a dose of family cheer.

 

When Peter rang the Thursdays' front bell a few minutes later, there was the noise of a tussle inside - multiple voices calling out that they'd get it. Morse looked about ready to bolt and Peter considered grabbing him by the collar like a perp, but figured it would be bad form.

A moment later, the door opened, and Joan gave them a wide smile. "Hello boys, happy Christmas - come in, come in." She was being facetious, but it was a cheery sort of thing, and Peter rolled his eyes at her as he crossed the threshold - then saw, over her shoulder, her brother. Sam was lingering in the sitting room doorway, wearing a jumper Peter had helped him choose a few days before, and looking on edge. Nervous, his face a little pale. But then Peter smiled at him, and his face broke out in a happy grin, the anxiety falling away in a moment. 

"Happy Christmas, Sam," Peter said, and pulled him into the quickest, roughest hug. One that could almost be friendly, especially because he released it before Sam could even respond. But it helped. It was such an unexpected relief to see him. And to be here.

And then everyone was in the front hall, Thursday shaking Morse's hand stiffly while Peter gave Win two careful kisses on the cheeks, which to his pleasure made her blush and swat him away. Sam and Joan were laughing, and it was lovely.

 

Drinks were handed around, and they did gifts before dinner. Peter and Morse both got ties from the Thursday family, and they were nothing to sniff at. Silk. Conservative - the sort of thing Thursday liked, and liked his bagmen to wear. A good choice, both personal and somehow entirely impersonal. Professional. Morse gave a box of some sort of sweets to Win, and bottles of liquor to Peter and Thursday. Peter had bought Win a set of kitchen linens with input from Sam, and she oohed and ahhed over them and made him feel very smug indeed. Thursday got a bottle of liquor from Peter, too. Anything more personal seemed entirely wrong. Peter gave Morse a package of three new shirts, which made Thursday chuckle and Joan laugh so hard she snorted a little, which in turn set Sam off. Morse glared at him, but also said a surprisingly sincere thank you.

By the time they got to the dinner table, they were all a bit tipsy, a bit festive. There were Christmas crackers, and despite protests from several of the more serious-acting members of the party - all three policemen - soon everyone was wearing paper crowns and trading atrociously bad jokes across the table. Morse didn't get any of them, which Peter found hilarious, and he ended up laughing harder than anyone, his crown half slipping over one of his eyes until Sam reached over the table and fixed it for him. The gesture sent a shot of warmth down Peter's spine, so intense and overwhelming he had to pause and gather himself for a moment, but no one else seemed to notice - they were all chatting and laughing, Joan trying to explain to Morse why exactly wordplay and puns were funny, as well as clever. In the space afforded them by everyone else focusing on Morse, Peter gave Sam a smile and nudged his foot under the table, and got a blush in return.

They lingered for a long time after dinner, everyone lazy in the sitting room, chatting and trying to digest, and getting sleepy. They watched the Queen's speech, and drank coffee, and outside it got dark, low-hanging clouds reflecting the streetlight and promising rain or - if it got any colder - snow. 

 

When Win announced she should clean up the kitchen, Peter was on his feet immediately, offering to help. It was an instinct, but he knew from her surprise and Sam's soft smile that it had been the right one. His stubbornness won out over her objections, and soon he was up to his elbows in dishwater while Win dried and put away.

They didn't talk much as they worked, but Win did ask him a few soft questions about his past, and he answered honestly. It seemed in the spirit of the day. He told her that he usually worked on Christmas because he had no family to go to. He told her he'd been at Blenheim Vale, though he was sure she already knew that. He told her about settling in Oxford, and about his choice to be a policeman. When they were finished Win kissed his cheek and he felt himself flush as hard as she had when he'd done the same in the entry earlier that afternoon. "You're always welcome here, Peter," she said, and then turned him around and gave him a little shove. "Go sit down, I'll finish up."

He laughed to cover up the mix of emotions he didn't much feel like feeling, and did as he was told - and laughed again when he got to the sitting room and found that Sam had taken over the space he'd left when he stood up, and was curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

"Too much excitement," Thursday intoned from his chair, then chuckled. "This one, too." He pointed his pipe at Morse, who looked a little drunk and more than a little sleepy, struggling to keep his head up at the other end of the couch. "We'd better be taking them home."

"We, sir?"

"We. I'll take Morse, it's out of your way."

"You don't have to, sir, I don't mind."

"I'm all right, sir," Morse added, managing to sit up straight again.

Thursday gave them both a look he used more in the office than at home. "I'm offering, Jakes. And you look like you're about to join my son in slumberland, Morse."

"All right," Peter replied, with only a slight tone of 'you've made your bed, now lie in it.'

Win came in after him, then, drying her hands on one of her new towels, and laughed at the scene. "Home time, then?"

"Home time. I'm taking Morse." Thursday stood up and kissed her, then left the room, Win following to gather everyone's coats.

Peter assumed that meant it was his job to wake up Sam, and he crouched beside the couch and shook his shoulder gently. Sam woke up with a start, blinking hard, then focused on Peter's face and smiled. "Wha's going on?" he mumbled.

"You fell asleep. C'mon, let's get you home."

Sam muttered something that sounded like an agreement, but then snuggled down further into the cushions and closed his eyes again. Peter laughed and grabbed his hands, hauling him up to sitting. "Stay there. No more sleeping. Joan, prod him or something if he lies back down."

"Gladly," Joan shot from across the room, though she didn't put down her magazine.

 

Sam was still sitting up when Peter came back with his coat a minute later, though he didn't look much more awake. He slept hard, even for naps, and if his sleep was interrupted he tended to take a long time to come back to full consciousness. It was a credit to how much Peter adored Sam that he found it endearing instead of irritating.

Sam got to his feet and into his coat on his own, so he seemed to be working on waking up, but after saying their goodbyes he stumbled on the first step going out the door and Peter took his elbow, guiding him to the car and all but pouring him into the passenger seat. Sam rested his head against the door as soon as it was closed, and seemed down for the count again. Peter laughed, then turned around to find Thursday there - close enough and unexpected enough that he jumped.

"All right?" Thursday asked.

"Yeah - yes, sir. He's still half-asleep."

"He does that."

"Mm." He was certainly not going to admit to Thursday that he already knew that.

"Well. Pleasure having you, Jakes."

"Thank you, sir. For having me. And Morse."

"Mm." Thursday looked away from him, to the car, where Sam now had his cheek pushed flat against the window, mouth hanging open. He chuckled, then turned back to Peter. "Take care of him."

There was a weight to it, and a seriousness in his heavy-lidded eyes, that Peter did not think he was misreading.

"Always, sir."

Thursday nodded, and everything was still and quiet for a moment. They just stood, in the cold December air, muffled under the low clouds, the warm light pouring out from windows all along the street.

At the Thursdays' own house, Win stepped out onto the porch, arms wrapped around herself to ward off the chill. Joan hovered behind her, watching. "Fred," Win called. "Let the poor boys go home before they all freeze."

Thursday nodded, and reached out to shake Peter's hand. "Happy Christmas, Jakes."

"Happy Christmas, sir." He waved at Win and Joan, and he and Thursday parted, climbing into their cars, heading off into the night with their passengers.

 

About halfway home, Sam finally woke up, shaking his head and squinting out into the dark streets before looking over at Peter.

"Hey, sleepyhead."

"Hey. We're going home?"

"Mmhm."

"Where's Morse?"

"Your dad took him."

"Oh." He shifted in his seat and stretched his neck, which had to be all in knots. "Did you have a nice time?"

"I did. Really."

Sam smiled at him and reached out, touching his hand on the gearshift briefly. "Good. I missed you last night. It was hard to sleep."

Peter glanced over at him. So that was why he was so sleepy. "I missed you, too. It was strange waking up without you."

"Well, now you've got me back."

"Mmhm." He squeezed Sam's hand quickly, and glanced over at him. "I love you, Sam Thursday. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas to you, Peter Jakes. I love you, too."

 

There was no one on the road, no one in sight. Only shuttered shops, and streetlights, and rain starting to fall. Peter slowed the car to a stop, and leant over and kissed him in the dark of the empty Christmas streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, kudosing, commenting! I'm glad other people enjoyed this little new ship adventure.
> 
> As usual, you can find me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/IcyPetitsPois


End file.
